Juba! (10 page)

Why that was funny got away from me. I looked at Mr. Pell, and he wasn't laughing, either.

Mr. Pell said he had a week to find somebody, so he needed my answer as soon as possible. He gave me an address where I could contact him. It was Butler's Theatre.

I thought about it and thought about it. It was like wrestling with a slippery eel. Soon as I wrapped my mind around “yes,” it would slip over to “no.” And as soon as I wrapped my mind around “no,” I would see something pointing to “yes.” One of the things in the back of my mind was how good Fred Flamer was doing, or how good I thought he was doing. He had gone to Washington to that job and had never come back to Five Points.

I ended up with a “yes,” and Mr. Pell said he was glad and that he thought I would be glad as well. He set up a time for me to meet the other performers.

Mr. Briggs was the friendly sort. He reached out and grabbed my hand and shook it as if he had known me for a long time.

Mr. Ludlow was young and narrow shouldered but had a lot of quick jokes he could call up in a minute. Mr. Everton acted like his face wasn't made for smiling. Mr. Valentine said he thought I would do all right with him.

“England is different from America,” Mr. Valentine said. “They speak two kinds of English over there. The first is the
high-class English, and you have to listen really carefully to understand what they're saying. The second is the low-class English, and it doesn't matter how hard you listen, you won't understand them.”

The strangest thing about leaving New York was saying good-bye to people. What I learned about good-bye was that you were telling everyone that you were leaving where you were and going someplace else. But if you didn't know where that someplace was, if it was just a dot on a map, then you didn't have that much to say.

“So what you going to be doing different in London, England?” Miss Lilly asked me.

“I don't know,” I said. “But I hope they like what I do.”

Miss Lilly patted me on the wrist and told me not to worry, that I would always have a home in Five Points. She wrote
down the address Mr. Pell gave me as our English contact and said she would write to me. She had been kind to me whenever she could.

Jack Bishop gave me six dollars to take with me and a small Bible printed in Gaelic. “It's okay if you can't read it,” he said. “Just remember that you don't have to go to church to get the Lord's help.”

“Think about me when all those English people are clapping for you,” Stubby said. “You think about me and I'll feel it, too.”

On the
American Eagle,
Mr. Valentine complained all the time about his cabin and how small and cramped it was for him and Mr. Everton. I was the only one with a cabin by myself. I slept on a cot that was fastened to the deck, and the rest of the cabin was piled high with trunks full of our stage gear. When none of us was seasick, we practiced on deck, and people on the ship came and watched us. Briggs was really good, and so was Pell. They could all move and dance and sound as if they were black, and I felt a little uncomfortable with them. When Gil, which is how Mr. Pell wanted me to address him, asked if I was all right, I told him I was getting a little nervous.

“If everyone is showing black people as being stupid and lazy, then it doesn't matter too much what I do,” I said.

“It matters if you make it matter,” Gil said. “People should come away from our performances thinking about what they've just seen.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. “How do we know what they're thinking?”

“Doesn't matter what
we
know. If they come expecting just a bunch of clowns in blackface and nappy wigs and that's
what they see onstage, then they won't think anything as they leave,” Gil said. “But if they come expecting dumb Negro acts and they see great dancing and great singing, then they'll think maybe they were wrong about black people. Or at least a few of them will.

“Do you know why minstrel shows are mostly held in the North?” Gil asked. “Because people in the South have seen and heard real Negroes. They're not funny, and their music isn't funny, either.”

That was something to think on.

We arrived in London on a cold, rainy Saturday afternoon. Gil arranged for two carriages, and we loaded our trunks and went to where we would be staying. Cheshire Street looked a lot like Five Points. The streets around it were narrow, and there were a lot of people just standing around. Children stared at us as we came out of the carriages, and a few followed us to 110 Cheshire, which was going to be our home in London.

The next day, the entire group met with our London manager, Mr. Campbell, at a steamy restaurant. We were supposed to meet someone from a British newspaper, the
Times
of London, and map out our plans. I didn't know what to order from the menu and was glad when Mr. Campbell ordered something called bangers and mash for all of us.

“The ticket sales have been disappointing, to say the least,” Mr. Campbell said.

“They haven't seen us yet,” Gil said. “Once the reviews start coming in, the people will follow.”

“We've been canceled at Lyceum and I'm looking for a new place to perform” was the quick reply. “I'm even thinking of a theater outside of London.”

That didn't sound good. Valentine asked what had happened, and Mr. Campbell said people just didn't have that much money to spend on entertainment.

“London is a great city for entertainment,” he said. “People from all over the British Isles come here on holiday and are very supportive of all kinds of shows. But every theater is struggling, and when they struggle, they go to revivals and trot out all the old shows. You can't blame them, but it makes booking hard.”

“It was my understanding that we were scheduled to perform at the Lyceum for a month,” Gil said.

“The small print said it depended on us selling a certain number of tickets before the first performance,” Mr. Campbell said. “And we aren't even close to filling the number of seats the owner wants. He's booked in
The Beggar's Opera
.”

The food came, and it turned out to be sausages and potatoes. The waitress brought out tea for everybody and asked me something I didn't understand.

“She wants to know if you're an African,” Mr. Campbell said.

“I'm an American,” I said.

The answer surprised her, and she stepped back. “You're a slave?”

“No,” I said.

She gave me a look that said she didn't believe me and went on about her business. I asked Mr. Campbell if they had many black people in London, and he said no. It had been hard trying to see out of the carriage on the way to Cheshire Street, so I didn't know what kinds of people there were in London.

A quiet came over the group as we ate the sausages, which weren't that bad, and the potatoes, which were kind of strange-tasting. Cancellations were pretty common in show business. We were always scrambling around looking for places to perform and hoping that somehow we would be paid at the end of the week. But Gil acted as if he was really down, and I wondered if I was going to be on a boat headed back to New York in the morning.

Mr. Campbell was telling us about a theater in Birmingham, which was about a day's journey north of London, when the man from the
Times
joined us. The waitress who had asked me if I was a slave came over, took his order, and gave me another funny look. Mr. Campbell introduced Gil and told the reporter about the cancellation and how he
was sure we would soon book another theater. The reporter asked for our names, and Gil produced a paper from his pocket with all of our names on it.

“You're Juba!” The man from the
Times
pointed a stubby finger at me. “The one Charles Dickens wrote about?”

“I'm Juba,” I said, not sure where he was going.

“Well, you're the anointed one, and all of London will be anxious to see you, sir.”

“That's good,” I said.

“Half of London has heard about Boz's Juba, and they'll want to see him for themselves,” the reporter explained to us. “No doubt about him being the main attraction, is there?”

That made me feel really good.

Gil and Mr. Campbell decided to sit tight and wait to see what happened when the story of me being in London made the papers. They didn't have to wait long. We had an offer to fill a two-week gap at Sadler's Wells starting on the weekend. Mr. Campbell was congratulating the group because the new deal was better than the one that had been canceled.

“And hundreds more people will see and hear us, and the critics will be there, too,” Mr. Campbell said.

The reporter from the
Times
didn't refer to my real name, William Henry Lane, at all. To him I was Boz's Juba, and I didn't have a problem with that. Gil went out and bought the paper and we all sat around while Ludlow read it to us.

Pell's Serenaders have arrived in London and with them they have brought the celebrated African that our own Charles Dickens has anointed as the world's best dancer. We are referring of course to Boz's Juba, the young man that our Author referred to in his well-received book,
American Notes
. I have seen the subject dancer and note that he is keen of eye and full of nervous energy, not at all like the slow blackies that sweep the sidewalks at Cecil Court and other places in London. I, for one, am eager to see him educate us with his flying feet. If he is half as good as Boz describes him, he will be a wonder to behold!

The whole troupe was excited and eager to start. I was the most excited. I thought back on meeting Charles Dickens, and although I liked him, I hadn't made that much of our conversation. I tried to remember what he looked like and could only think of a kind of softness about him.

The idea of people in England wanting to see me dance, even knowing my name, made me feel lighter than air. If they had been told by Charles Dickens that I was something special, then I wanted to be something so special they would never forget me.

The Sadler's Wells Theatre was like something I couldn't even imagine. It was huge, with a stage that was as deep as it
was wide. The back of the stage, from the high curtain wall to the back brick wall, was flat. The front twenty feet of the stage declined toward the audience.

There were fifty-four seats across in the first row, and there were twenty-two rows on the first floor. I don't know how many seats the balcony had. There were boxes on both sides, and if you stood exactly center stage, you got the feeling that the whole world could see you. After our first rehearsal, which went very well, I stood center stage and tried to imagine every seat filled with people leaning forward to see Pell's Serenaders. As I stood there, all my fears went away. I could almost hear the music, and I wanted to dance on the spot. I did a few steps across the rough floor.

“How do you like it?” Gil asked.

“It's a little soft,” I said. “The audience could miss the rhythm.”

“You've got wooden soles, haven't you?”

“I might look for a new pair,” I said.

I was hoping my nervousness wasn't showing. Coming to England, I had hoped for the best, a chance to show my skills and to get paid for doing it. The stories in the newspapers had taken me by surprise. I wanted to buy all the newspapers and take them to our rooms with me.

The theater had dressing rooms for the performers, too. No theater I had ever been in had official dressing rooms, but Sadler's Wells did. In the rooms were long tables with
mirrors, and lamps that you could move from side to side or up and down on a sliding bar.

“Do you put on your own face paint?” The voice startled me.

I turned and saw a round-faced girl, who looked to be about eighteen or so, standing in the doorway.

“Yes, I do,” I said.

“I do sewing for your wardrobe,” the girl said. “If you need anything repaired or adjusted, I can do it. I'm really quite good.”

“I'm sure you are,” I said. “And your name is . . . ?”

“Sarah Felton,” she answered. “My father is a tailor. That's where I learned the trade. You're black, aren't you?”

“Yes.” I had to smile. “I am very black.”

“It must be pretty hard to live in a country where they make slaves of your people,” the girl said. “I think it would twist my bonnet something terrible! I can't imagine people walking down the street looking at me as if I were something that could be bought and sold. The very idea of it!”

“It makes me mad, too,” I said. “And it hurts me as well.”

“I can believe that, sir,” she said. “I can truly believe that. Well, if you need anything repaired, or need to know where anything is around the theater, I'm your girl.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“And do you dance as well as they say, Master Juba?”

“I hope so.”

It was our first night, and my stomach was jumping around as if I were going to ask it to dance instead of my feet. Looking through the curtain, I saw the theater filling up with people, and I didn't feel as bad about Gil arguing with Mr. Campbell earlier. Mr. Campbell said he had to give the theater a better deal than we thought we were going to get. Gil said we'd just about break even after we paid all our expenses.